


A Reassessment of Sorts

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident has Sherlock realizing some things about John, himself and Christmas. A two-parted story which is happily going along with Gatiss' and Moffat's innuendos and was written in December 2012 in order to shorten the wait till the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afghanistan or Iraq

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Author´s notes: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy!

o o o

**A Reassessment of Sorts**

o o o

Part 1: Afghanistan or Iraq

o o o

 

Later on, John can´t recall how exactly it has happened. He and Sherlock were running; Sherlock, pursuing a lead, had suddenly taken off and John inevitably followed him, despite not knowing where they were headed or why it had to be so fast.

The ground was slippery for it was December, and John vaguely remembers that it was difficult to keep his footing while rounding corners. And then he somehow had lost control, and there was pain, made even worse by the cold. He seemed to be lying and his head hurt. He couldn´t move because the world was spinning too much, and he felt nauseous.

Blindly, he groped around for something, anything to hold on to. He was close to panicking because he seemed alone in the freezing, revolving gloom of the alley, but then his hand met resistance: someone was there with him. John could feel woollen cloth and also hands, hands which were frantically touching- _caressing_ his face with trembling fingers. And then there was a voice: "John!"

He knew that deep baritone, and it sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. The hands wouldn´t leave his skin and the voice kept talking to him, but it was entirely too much effort to keep concentrating on them, so John let go, allowing himself to slip into darkness.

Sherlock sits in the waiting room, staring down on his shoes. He shouldn´t have been so rash. If he hadn´t let his ego take over like that, John would be fine now.

He always does this, doesn´t he? It´s what his job requires, and he usually is right about his hunches. But tonight was different, if he is honest with himself. He has been extremely bored the last few days, didn´t know what to do with his time until Lestrade called in the late afternoon, and John and he have been investigating all night. The case admittedly was a little disappointing, yet better than nothing.

So Sherlock tried to get the most fun out of it- running through dark side streets, negotiating his way through London by the map in his head instead of riding in a cab, just like on the first case John and he had together.

In hindsight, it´s been stupid of him. Unlike the case with the pink lady, tonight there hadn´t even been a chase which would have justified the sprint. Sherlock just felt like doing it, hadn´t particularly considered John´s safety, or his own for that matter, despite the slippery ground.

Stupid. John is his friend, and for reasons Sherlock can´t quite comprehend himself, his safety is becoming increasingly important to the detective. He sometimes forgets, though. John is after all capable of looking after himself, much better so than Sherlock, who tends to neglect his needs. But John is also more vulnerable because he _feels_ , and he has susceptibilities.

Sherlock has noticed that recently, the limp has been back. Only a little and probably nothing to worry about, but it means that John is concerned about something, something which affects his subconscious enough to bring back this psychosomatic expression of stress. Sherlock doesn´t know whether John himself has noticed it; he hasn´t said anything about it, and he seems his usual self.

Yet there were hints, if ever so subtle, which have Sherlock wondering: for example, whenever his sister called lately, John casually wandered out of the room so as not to be overheard. He broke a mug while drying the dishes on the previous day, a mug which had long been dry but which John kept rubbing with the tea towel so forcefully that it finally gave in.

And he´s repeatedly been up in the night, which is also unusual.

Something is bothering him, and Sherlock, knowing about the limp, should probably have considered that John might be a little too unsteady on his feet to have him running around in this weather.

He sighs inaudibly, unaware that he has been mulling the issue over for as long as he has been sitting here instead of thinking about the case. He has only barely remembered to call Lestrade and inform him of the latest development and where to look for more proof, then he has switched off his phone.

He can still feel the panic when, upon realizing that John was no longer behind him, he had run back and found his friend on the ground, face full of blood and obviously disoriented. He hadn´t recognized Sherlock, hadn´t responded to his questions, and had soon lost consciousness. He must have slipped and hit his head hard, Sherlock thinks, and shudders. He has seen John with a head injury before, but that had been minor in comparison to this one.

This one looked bad, a gash right underneath the hairline above his forehead, and even though Sherlock knew that wounds on the head bled rather heavily, he had been appalled to see John like that. It had however scared him most that John hadn´t been responsive.

Sherlock´s stomach drops unpleasantly at the prospect that John might have sustained any damage to the brain, or fractured his skull. The rational part of his mind tells him not to be ridiculous, that it most likely is a concussion, but the other part, the one which he can´t name because it can´t possibly be influenced by _emotions_ , insists that it might be much worse and that he, Sherlock, is to blame.

Sherlock hugs himself and bends forward, feeling cold of a sudden. Seeing John like that, lying helplessly on the cold ground, all his strength invisible behind the blood and the drama of his still figure, has made Sherlock realize that he doesn´t think he can live without the doctor. That he has come to relying on John being there in his life, not only to buy milk and keep Sherlock grounded to some extent, but also because he is a steady and reassuring presence in an otherwise unpredictable and changing world.

Sherlock needs constancy to be able to cope with what is thrown at him. And there is something else, something which has to do with that undefined part of him which seem to bring out his soft side (the one he previously denied that existed at all): John is amazing. The world seems a better place when he smiles, and Sherlock, for some incomprehensible reason, feels proud when John smiles because of him. Which of course is completely irrational, but Sherlock can´t deny that it is of increasing importance to him what John thinks about him.

He jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder: it´s a nurse, coming to tell him that Mr Watson has been treated, is awake and has asked for him. It´s a mere concussion but he is being kept overnight for observation. Another rush of adrenaline runs through Sherlock, this time out of relief. On shaky legs he follows the nurse to John´s room.

He´s alone in it, a considerable blessing. The nurse nods at Sherlock, encouraging him to go in; he looks at her irritably, then enters.

John lies nearly flat on his back, a large white bandage on his head. Sherlock approaches the bed with two large strides: "John."

The doctor opens his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even before that: "Sherlock," he murmurs, sounding tired. "You all right?"

Sherlock ignores the question because he needs a moment to take him in: all traces of blood have been vanished. John looks very pale and his eyes are a little unfocused. He still looks lovely. Sherlock tentatively searches for his hand and wraps his long fingers around it. They are cold, he only now realizes that he´s lost his gloves. Which is not important, because John´s going to be all right and there are things Sherlock needs to say.

"I´m sorry."

John raises one eyebrow, then winces a little: "Ow... What for?"

"For not _thinking_."

"Maybe it´s the drugs they´ve given me," John mutters, "but it´s not possible that you´re _not_ thinking. So I must have misheard."

Sherlock runs his free hand through his curls in agitation: "No, no! I mean, I didn´t _think_! I put you in unnecessary danger!"

"No news there."

"You don´t understand. I put you in danger by letting you come along even though I knew about your leg."

"My leg. Wait- letting me come along?"

"And now you´re injured because I didn´t manage to... to keep you safe."

"Making me sound like a damsel in distress." Despite being drugged, John does his best to follow. " _Letting me come along?_ "

Sherlock however has run out of words and now visibly deflates: "I´m so sorry."

"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" John asks, "after I´ve slept some."

"Yes, of course." Sherlock gently squeezes his hand and John thinks it feels good.

"You sleep too," he instructs, a little slurred, while his eyes are already closing.

Sherlock has no intention of leaving, however, despite his own exhaustion which is bearing down on him now that the adrenaline has worn off. He stays exactly where he is until he is sure that John is asleep, then settles down in the chair next to the bed.

When the night nurse comes in a while later to check on her patient, Sherlock has dozed off as well.

 

 

On the following morning, John looks less pale. He´s allowed to go home, provided that he immediately lies down again and has someone looking after him.

Sherlock can tell that the responsible doctor is lenient towards John because he´s a colleague. He´s also curious about the nature of their relationship, judging from the way he looks from John to Sherlock and back, stressing that John is going to need monitoring all around the clock during the next few days, to which Sherlock nods and gives him his most imperious look: "I´ll take care of him, don´t you worry," he says, and John feels another rather pleasant shiver running down his spine.

During the night, the nurse has roused him a few times in order to check whether he was still lucid and didn´t suffer any complications. He has also been woken a few times by Sherlock, who didn´t seem to trust the nurse´s competence and preferred to do his own checking.

Apart from that, he has slept well; in the morning, it took him a moment to recall where he was and why, but after it had come back to him, he wasn´t really surprised to see that Sherlock had stayed with him and apparently even slept a little. He looks tousled now, his eyes are bloodshot.

 

John slowly sits up on the bed; despite the painkillers, he can feel the wound throbbing dully at this, and a fleeting sense of dizziness assails him. But Sherlock is there, providing bodily support.

"Are you sure you are ready to leave?" he asks, and John, taking a deep breath, can only just keep himself from nodding: "Yes," he breathes, leaning against his friend for a moment,"I am. I want to go home."

Sherlock, sensing that John needs a minute, stays perfectly still. He is not used to the feeling of another warm body against his own, but the solid weight is not uncomfortable, so he accepts it.

Afterwards, he fetches John´s clothes from the wardrobe; there´s blood on the pullover and the jacket, but it will do for the ride back to Baker Street. John´s movements are slow and he´s grateful that Sherlock is there to help; it feels much less awkward to have him assisting John to dress than expected, and he´s surprisingly patient, guiding John´s arms into his shirt when he fumbles around for the sleeves, and making sure that his pullover doesn´t touch the bandage as John pulls it over his head. He also helps him with his socks and boots, as John can´t bend down.

When he´s fully dressed, John puts a shaky hand on Sherlock´s arm: "Thank you," he says, a little out of breath, "that´s better."

A black limousine is waiting outside. Sherlock looks at John and raises one eyebrow: "I didn´t tell him."

"No, ´s okay." John actually doesn´t mind Mycroft´s interfering for once; he wants to get home as quickly as possible, and a private car is admittedly much more comfortable than a cab and possibly putting up with the cabby´s questions about his bandage.

Sherlock is relieved to find that the car is empty; no sibling or personal assistant to contend with.

After fastening his seatbelt, John leans back and closes his eyes; the act of getting dressed and into the car, in combination with being woken up in regular intervals, has tired him considerably.

"You can have my room," Sherlock says unexpectedly. "It´s warmer and there are no stairs between you and the bathroom."

John opens one eye and peers over at him: "Stop doing that."

Sherlock looks nonplussed: "I´m not doing anything. I´m just being practical."

John hums: "No, you are feeling guilty. I do recall that you were apologizing. Which, by the way, needs some working over."

"Why? I _did_ say I was sorry."

"Duly noted. And I´m sure it hurt. But your reasoning lacked a certain je-ne-sais-quoi."

Sherlock huffs: "I meant it."

"I know." John closes his eye again, looking suspiciously as though he is struggling to hide a grin.

Indignantly, Sherlock further turns up his collar, managing not to say _idiot_.

"You know, I think I am going to take you up on your offer," John says ten minutes later when they are climbing the stairs up to their flat. "One flight of stairs is enough."

Right then, the door downstairs opens and Mrs Hudson appears: "My poor dear," she exclaims when she sees John, "are you feeling better?"

Sherlock has called her and told her what has transpired.

"I will be, Mrs Hudson," the doctor replies, "thanks."

She follows them up the stairs and into the flat: "I´ll go make some tea."

While Mrs Hudson is busying herself in the kitchen, Sherlock leads John, who feels a little shaky again, to his bedroom.

"I can quickly get new sheets," he offers, but John waves it off: "No need. I think I´ll drop where I stand. You never sleep here anyway."

"Funny. Anyway, shoes off first. And you need pyjamas."

"Yes, sir."

"Whatever they gave you, it´s apparently brought out your more hilarious side." Sherlock remarks as he helps John remove his shoes and his bloody clothes.

"You´d think so, wouldn´t you," John shoots back, but Sherlock can see that he´s really depleted now.

"I´ll go get your pyjamas."

 

John eases himself onto the quilt, glad to get off his feet. Sherlock´s room, as opposed to the rest of the flat, is always tidy, just like his appearance. The doctor runs his fingers over the sheet, savouring the fine cotton. He wonders why Sherlock so rarely sleeps in here, for the room is cosy and the bed seems inviting.

Looking around with measured movements, he thinks of Sherlock lying in this very place and feels how his throat suddenly constricts. A vague sense of something he can´t label crosses his mind- loss? Regret? Want? He can´t say, and it startles him. In the state he is in, desirous thoughts about your flatmate aka friend are even less easy to deal with, and apparently, harder to subpress.

He ponders the word _desire_ because it doesn´t nearly express what he feels on the rare occasions that he can´t avoid thinking about the topic of _Sherlock_. Or what he feels in Sherlock´s presence if he can´t prevent being honest with himself any longer, for example when being drunk. Which is why he has been extremely careful during pub crawls with Mike Stamford lately. He may not be able to hide the nature of his feelings when he´s too sloshed, or even try to make a move. Any move however could be fatal, as he is very much aware.

_\- Don´t be stupid_ , he thus tells his tired, aching self and not for the first time, _Sherlock is not interested, and you better not be either. You´ll be best off if it´s left at that._

_\- Right. That´s why you´re lying in his bed now instead of refusing the offer_.

He sighs: G _oes to show how messed up you are, Watson_. _Pathetic, really._

_\- Can you really call it_ pathetic _if you listen to your heart_?

_\- Depends on how much you´re putting at risk._

Half an hour later, John is comfortably settled in, had a cup of tea and some cake specially made for the occasion by Mrs Hudson and is about to doze off.

Sherlock sits on the edge of the mattress: "You´re looking better."

"I´m feeling better," John mumbles. "Being at home and all..." He opens his eyes once more, looking at Sherlock drowsily: "Sherlock- how many times do I have to tell you that I´m not running _after_ you," he murmurs, "but that I´m running _with_ you?"

Sherlock´s heart is beating faster again. "So long as you _are_ with me," he says quietly. And John, with an exquisite little jolt of his stomach, thinks that the risk might not be quite as high as he has thought.

 

 

John sleeps for most of the day. Sherlock has been sitting with him for a while until he got bored. He´s tired, but he doesn´t want to risk falling asleep yet. He needs to check on John, who grumpily answers Sherlock´s test questions every time he is being woken: "Which year is it?"

"2012."

"What´s your middle name?"

"Hamish."

"Who´s the Prime Minister?"

"Mycroft."

"Really?"

"No. Go look it up. Now lemme sleep."

Mrs Hudson comes by again in the early evening; Sherlock is sitting with John, looking considerably knackered.

"Why don´t you go and rest for a bit, dear?" their landlady asks. "I can look in on him for a while."

Sherlock complies, for he feels like he´s going to keel over any moment now.

 

When Mrs Hudson, after checking on John, sneaks into the living room an hour later, she finds Sherlock curled up on the sofa, apparently oblivious to the world. Tutting, the old lady takes the blanket from John´s armchair: "Going to catch cold like that," she mutters and spreads it over him.

"Won´t."

She´s startled for only a second: "Oh, I´m sorry, I didn´t mean to wake you up-"

"You didn´t," he mutters, pulling the blanket tight around his thin frame, "thank you."

Mrs Hudson pats his shoulder: "Not at all, dear."

Sherlock has been drifting in and out sleep, too agitated to fully relax, yet too tired to stay awake. He´s grateful for Mrs Hudson´s help and he knows John won´t mind; he does like to spend time with their landlady, after all, and they share a love of certain TV shows. He can hear her moving about in the living room, trying not to make any noise.

The detective burrows deeper into his nest; John´s scent is lingering in the blanket, which is strangely comforting. He shouldn´t allow himself the luxury of such thoughts, for it is too distracting from other things. But if he is completely honest with himself he has to admit that other things don´t seem more important than John any longer, not even the work.

Sherlock thinks he should be disturbed by this, and he still needs to keep his brain occupied at all times, yet for some reason, the fact remains that he´s content with occupying it with John and John-related issues. Such as what to get the doctor for Christmas, or how really appealing John looks when he is concentrating on something and doesn´t notice that he´s being watched. Sherlock closes his eyes again, recalling the day he and John have met. That was how it all began, _Afghanistan or Iraq_...

Mrs Hudson lights a fire in the fireplace and kindles it so the room warms up quickly, then she sits down in one of the armchairs. Just like today her hip plays up from time to time, usually when the weather is about to change, and it seems as though they might get a white Christmas.

Sherlock wakes from another nap around midnight; Mrs Hudson has fallen asleep in the armchair, a small bird of a woman. Even her light snoring sounds like chirping. He hesitates, then decides to wake her, gently shaking her arm: "Mrs Hudson."

She blinks, clearly disorientated at first: "Wha- oh. Sherlock..."

"It´s late," he says, "you should go to bed."

"Oh dear, did I fall asleep? Must have been my herbal soother," she mutters, taking Sherlock´s offered hand to get up. "Good night, dear."

"Good night."

Sherlock watches her leave, then pads to his bedroom.

"John. John."

"Hrmph."

"John."

"Wassup."

"When´s my birthday?"

John groans:"God, when will this end?"

"When´s my birthday?" Sherlock asks again, more insistently.

"January 6th."

"When´s your birthday?"

"Really, Sherlock? Don´t you have any better ideas?"

"Fine."

"That´s exactly what I am, and I want to sleep. Don´t wake me again."

"It´s for your own good."

"No, _sleep_ ´s for my own good. Uninterrupted sleep!"

"But I have to make sure-"

"No, you don´t. It´s fine. I am not suffering from any side effects, as you can deduce by my ability to talk to you lucidly despite being woken from sweet slumber all the time, and I feel neither nauseous nor dizzy, am not having any problems with my motor coordination nor any seizures. Which would be clear indicators if my condition had deteriorated. Happy?"

"No." Sherlock crosses his arms. "That doesn´t prove anything."

"What? Why not? And since when are _you_ the doctor?"

_I´m not. But I´ve seen you lying there in the alley and it was terrible. I´ve seen you lying there and felt like someone had ripped out my heart because for an awful moment I thought you were dead. I know it´s irrational, but when it comes to you, I can´t seem to think rational any longer. And if keeping you safe means getting on your nerves, well- get used to it._

Sherlock doesn´t say all this, however. He just looks at John in the semi-dark while those words are echoing around in his head, and he is rather confused.

"Oh, I finally seem to have found the Sherlock Holmes mute button." John yawns and gingerly turns on his side: "Go lie down, Sherlock. I´ll be fine."

"Yes," Sherlock says, in a daze. "Okay."

 

He doesn´t lie down though, but begins pacing around the living room. He stares longingly at his violin but manages to refrain from playing on it; he can feel the music in his body. In the end, he contents himself with holding it, cradling it close to his body, listening to melodies which aren´t really there, but which he can hear nevertheless.

It´s already getting light outside when he sinks onto the sofa and wraps himself in the blanket which is still lying on it, with the lingering scent of John in it. John who is currently recuperating in Sherlock´s bed, sleeping.

For some reason, the thought has an immensely calming effect on Sherlock, and he finally closes his eyes.

**o o o**

**TBC  
**

**o  
**

 


	2. 'Tis the Season to be Jolly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Author´s note: I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy!

o o o

**A Reassessment of Sorts**

o o o

Part 2: 'Tis the Season to be Jolly

o o o

 

"What did you mean when you said 'even though you knew about my leg'?" John asks a few days later.

It´s the morning of Christmas Eve; Mrs Hudson´s hip has been right, London´s covered in a delicate white blanket. John is recovering well and therefore allowed to get up (both by his doctor and Sherlock) if he is cautious and doesn´t overdo it.

Sherlock, who secretly would have preferred if John had been prescribed a few more days of bedrest just to make sure, has done everything he could in order to keep the doctor from overexerting himself. He has been grocery shopping, taken John´s clothes to the dry cleaner´s and, under Mrs Hudson´s gentle directions, has even put up the Christmas decorations John´s so fond of, including several chains of fairy lights.

"He´s getting delightfully domestic," Mrs Hudson whispered into John´s ear, albeit loud enough to earn herself a scowl from the great detective, which only heightened her and John´s mirth.

As a result, Sherlock had stalked off to spend the rest of the afternoon in the lab at Barts. Apart from that however, the atmosphere in 221B is that of an unscheduled yet still welcome respite, now that John is on the mend; the snow contributes to that, as if it emphasizes that it is the time of year to slow down and enjoy.

Sherlock, who has been applying resin to his bow, rests in his movements: "I noticed that you have been limping again. A bit."

John purses his lips: "And?"

Sherlock frowns: "Isn´t it obvious? With an impairment such as that, it´s much more difficult to run on slippery ground."

John, in an unconscious imitation of Sherlock, steeples his fingers underneath his chin: "It´s not an impairment," he says quietly.

Sherlock, who´s been looking at his bow again, pauses once more: "It is. Well, obviously you didn´t need a cane, but it was still there, and it can´t have been pleasant."

John can´t but marvel at Sherlock´s perceptiveness. It´s not new to him, of course, and he should have known that his friend would notice, but Sherlock manages to catch him by surprise again and again. He also knows better than to be angry or offended. Sherlock didn´t mean to insult him, he really means what he says. He has analyzed the facts, as he always does, and put the result into words.

That he has given the matter so much thought is remarkable. That he is feeling guilty and has even apologized because of it is extraordinary. It shows how highly he values John, but more importantly, it shows how that he cares.

 

He´s looking expectantly at John now: "Well?"

John sighs: "You´re right. The limp´s back, if only a little. I didn´t even notice when it started. But now it´s there and I can´t seem to get rid of it."

"It´s because of Harry."

"Yeah, might be." John says after a moment, deciding that he can as well tell Sherlock the whole story: "She´s only been together with her new girlfriend for half a year, and now they want a baby. A _baby_! She´s not thought this through, she´s romanticizing it, and she doesn´t have the faintest idea what it entails. Not to mention the alcohol, which is becoming a topic again every now and then. I´ve been telling her that she´s irresponsible and she´s been telling me to fuck off, and there you go, same old story."

"You said you never got along with her."

"I know. And yet I want to. Now that our parents are gone, she´s the only one who´s left of my family."

John avoids Sherlock´s gaze, but the detective has seen the fleeting shadow of grief passing over the doctor´s features.

It makes sense; John is very sociable, and unlike Sherlock he´s not content to be alone for a long period of time. Of course family must be important to him, only Sherlock has never expected him to actually be sad about not having a proper one. But it explains why John spends so much of his spare time with Mrs Hudson, whom he hasn´t known for too long, after all.

Sherlock puts down the bow with a small frown, fiddling with the resin: "So you´re not- I mean, it´s okay that you´re spending Christmas with me instead of Harry?"

"God, yes," John gives a short, breathless laugh. He turns serious again when Sherlock remains silent: "What is it?"

"Nothing. I wondered- no. It´s nothing."

John eyes Sherlock with a mixture of curiosity and concern: "Sherlock."

Now it´s Sherlock´s turn to avoid looking at John. "It´s not the same, is it." he mutters.

"Not the same as what?"

"It´s not the same as being with your family. I suppose." He sounds strangely forlorn.

_You can imagine the Christmas dinners_. Mycroft´s sentence, spoken a seemingly long time ago, comes to John´s mind.

"Well, no," he replies after a moment, "but that doesn´t necessarily have to be negative. It´s... with Harry, it didn´t feel right. It should feel like home, you know... cosy. And one should be with someone... one feels comfortable with."

He blushes and stumbles on: "So this is more like it, especially after you´ve put up the decorations. A-and of course Mrs Hudson will be here, too, since her sister is on a cruise-"

Sherlock has finally looked up, his gaze unreadable. "Are you really feeling comfortable with me?" he asks, his voice deep and quiet.

"Yes..." John´s throat is dry all of a sudden, therefore he nearly whispers. "I do." His heart beats wildly against his ribcage, and he can hear his blood rushing in his ears while they hold each other´s gaze. John´s face feels flushed.

It´s Sherlock who breaks away first; rather abruptly, he gets up and takes up the violin, playing _Silent Night_ and _The First Noel_.

John, unsure what has just happened, listens in a half-dazed state. The last notes are sounding through the room when Mrs Hudson enters, a tin of freshly-baked cookies in one hand and a bottle of sherry in the other, which she puts on the coffee table: "Elevensies, dears."

She´s in a downright festive mood. Sherlock puts his violin on its stand and catches her as she whirls into the kitchen, pulling her into a hug. She squeals in surprise but then, delighted, returns the embrace and eventually pats his back: "Merry Christmas, love."

Sherlock kisses her on the cheek before he lets go; without saying anything, he picks up the violin again, this time to play a few decidedly more cheerful songs while Mrs Hudson pours them a glass of sherry each, humming along.

"Should you be drinking alcohol, dear?" she asks quietly before handing John his glass. "I can always get you something else."

"Don´t worry," John replies, "the concussion is nearly gone, so I´ll be fine." He´s actually had this discussion with his flatmate this very morning and half expects him to comment on it, but Sherlock pretends not to have heard.

John can´t read his expression when he joins them to raise glasses, but Sherlock seems at ease, and he smiles at both of them.

 

Later, when Mrs Hudson has gone to have her after-lunch nap, Sherlock disappears in his room for a while; John can hear him rummaging around. The doctor feels a little tired himself, therefore he gets up and relocates to the sofa, taking the Union Jack pillow with him to snuggle into. He still doesn´t have a clue what has changed or if anything has changed at all, but he refuses to worry. His eyes close of their own account while he is still pondering it, and it doesn´t take long for him to doze off.

He doesn´t hear Sherlock tiptoeing down the stairs and out of the house and only wakes up an hour later to rather ominous sounds and whispered swearwords.

John slowly sits up, blinking: "A tree."

Sherlock, who has been cursing under his breath, straightens up without letting go of what indeed is a fir tree. A beautiful one at that, not one of the scraggy leftovers one usually finds last minute. John however doesn´t care how Sherlock has done it- the living room is filled with a wonderful festive scent, transporting him back to countless Christmas Eves long gone. His mum had been adamant to not put the tree up before the 23rd, and to him it had only really become Christmas when they put the decorations on the tree and you could smell it was there the moment you entered the room.

It is obvious that Sherlock has never put up a tree before. He hasn´t thought of a tree stand, for example; John however remembers that Mrs Hudson has one. She doesn´t have a tree because she usually spends Christmas at her sister´s, so they can borrow it. Once the tree stands, additionally secured by transparent nylon cords, John crosses his arms: "You got a tree."

Sherlock, who´s busy with trying to rub the resin off his fingers, pauses for the shortest of seconds: "Obviously." _Really, John_ , the doctor can hear him add. _Stop stating the obvious_.

A grin slowly spreads on John´s face: " _You_ got a tree!"

Sherlock huffs irritably: "What´s so special about me getting a tree?"

"Because it´s you," John replies. His grin turns into a smile as he looks from the tree to his flatmate and there it is again, Sherlock´s stomach is doing somersaults.

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs, "I thought it might make it more... cosy. Home. Whichever."

"It does," John says softly, eyes still on Sherlock. "Although I don´t think I need a tree for that."

Sherlock blushes. Later on, he denies it has even happened, but his face is positively crimson for a moment, which John finds rather interesting.

 

To conceal his embarrassment, Sherlock picks up a box which has been sitting next to his chair; it´s rather large and seems heavy. He puts it on the chair and carefully opens the lid, revealing what looks like layers of old, slightly discoloured wrapping tissue.

"Look," he says, and steps back.

Curiously, John examines the contents of the box: it is filled with old-fashioned Christmas ornaments, delicate baubles and small glass birds. John has seen modern and probably significantly cheaper versions of these, but they can´t compete: the articles in the box are beautiful and strangely sophisticated rather than the usual kitsch.

"They belonged to my grandmother," Sherlock says. "You can put them up, if you like."

John looks at him, equally surprised that Sherlock has kept them and grateful that he trusts John with them: "Thank you. I´ll be careful."

Sherlock nods and turns around to pick up the violin again, playing "Oh Tannenbaum" while John begins to decorate the tree.

"Doesn´t it look marvellous," Mrs Hudson breathes when she comes by again in the late afternoon, balancing a small stack of presents: "I just thought I´d put them under the tree, that´s where they belong, after all."

John laughs: "If that´s the case, I´ll put my mine under it as well."

Later, when Mrs Hudson and John have retreated to their landlady´s kitchen to start Christmas dinner, Sherlock also puts some packages under the tree. It does look like a scene from an ad, and his heart leaps unexpectedly; he hasn´t been looking forward to Christmas ever since he´s been little, but tonight might actually be enjoyable.

Which it is. They have cleared the desk in the living room and turned it into a festive table; Mrs Hudson is a gifted cook and it is indeed very cosy. There is none of the grave stiffness Sherlock has come to associate with Christmas dinners, no sense of having to keep up any pretences; the three residents of 221 Baker Street are indeed comfortable with each other, and since they are in private, so to speak, the atmosphere is relaxed.

 

John notices that at one point Sherlock turns off his phone. The doctor hides a victorious grin; clearly, Sherlock has no desire to be called to a crime scene tonight, or elsewhere. He seems content, which is a first.

Mrs Hudson retreats to her bed around midnight. She´s a little tipsy from the wine, so John escorts her down the stairs. "It was nice," she smiles when they have reached her door, pecking him on the cheek. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ for the amazing meal," John replies,"even Sherlock didn´t need forcing to eat."

"He´s lucky to have you," Mrs Hudson whispers, then she turns around and lets herself in.

Slowly, John walks back upstairs. He´s also had more wine than caution would advise, but he doesn´t really care- it´s Christmas, after all, the season for indulging oneself.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, contemplating the tree. He smiles a little sleepily when John comes in: "I´m stuffed and had too much to drink, but I´m fine with it," he announces.

John feigns horror: "Who are you and what have you done to my friend?" he quips, sitting down opposite of Sherlock.

They look at each other through the gentle haze of contentment and alcohol.

"What made you change your mind?" John asks. "You didn´t particularly like Christmas before. But now we even have a tree, and the evening went well- without any unforeseen interruptions, I might add- and you seem... at ease."

Sherlock snorts, making a vague gesture with his hand: "It´s never been like this before. It didn´t feel like home, and I don´t think my family felt comfortable with each other. At least I didn´t feel comfortable with them, not after my grandma died. If anything, I felt alone. It was all about etiquette- _sit straight, Sherlock, don´t fidget, Sherlock_. _Don´t ask questions, Sherlock_."

The high voice he does is funny, but the memories clearly are anything but.

Sherlock rubs his eyes as if trying to erase the pictures: " _This_ is how it should have been."

John shakes his head, failing to imagine the boy Sherlock once was.

"And no one ever wanted to sing carols," Sherlock adds as an afterthought.

"We could sing carols," John suggests, thinking that he has really had too much wine if he in all seriousness is even considering it, but Sherlock frowns: "It´s no good, I can never get the texts right. I deleted them."

"Oh, come on," John hears himself say, "we can do one. _Old King Wenceslas_ -"

" _Good_ King Wenceslas! You already got it wrong!"

"I thought you deleted it!"

"Not the _title_ , obviously."

" _Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen, when the snow lay round about, deep and- and-_ "

"White-"

"No-"

"Cold-"

"No-"

"Bright-"

"Bright? No, shut up- _crisp and even_..."

They manage to get the first stanza together but dissolve into giggles due to their rather atonal singing.

"Thank you," Sherlock says once they have calmed down again. "For all of this."

"Funny," John smiles, "I was going to say the same to you."

As if on cue, they both get to their feet, pausing in front of each other. The momentum which has propelled them both out of their chairs in one fell swoop is still palpable, but they hesitate, wildly beating hearts and all. John worries what will happen once the alcohol wears off, and Sherlock thinks he wants to keep this image of John forever in his mind, John on the brink of something new, something which has nothing to do with anything that ever was before.

The John in front of him is alive and warm and radiating energy, so very unlike the scary, unconscious, bloodied version the picture of which Sherlock can´t shake off. This John looks as though he is either going to laugh or going to cry if Sherlock doesn´t do anything, so the detective takes another step towards the doctor until they are close, chests only milimeters apart: "John," he murmurs, raising one shaking hand to touch the other´s face: "Merry Christmas."

John closes his eyes and gently presses his cheek into Sherlock´s palm: "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he half-whispers, for his mouth is suddenly dry. Sherlock´s eyes are wide and his expression is open and vulnerable. John knows him well enough to be aware that this moment will not come again, ever. This is it. Dancing on the vulcano without any safety measures.

_Don´t mess it up, Watson_.

_I won´t._

John´s hands find Sherlock´s torso, slowly wandering over his shirt upwards; he can feel Sherlock´s ribcage and how it expands with every breath, and the notion of this living, breathing marvel of a man standing here with him, caressing his face, sends a pleasant shudder down his spine. His hands find Sherlock´s face, tenderly cupping it for a moment before moving on into the soft curls at the back of his neck; a moment later he feels Sherlock´s arms around him, gentle but firm, and then they are pressed against each other, heartbeat to heartbeart, and Sherlock´s face is so close that it is the most logical thing in the world to kiss him, and let himself be kissed.

It is overwhelming and scary and wonderful; when they come up for air, they smile against each other´s face, giddily.

 

Later, they are nestled up against each other on the sofa, bathed in the soft hues of the fairy lights and the Christmas tree. The fire has burned down and it´s getting considerably cooler in the living room, but they don´t want to go to bed; Christmas is with the tree.

John sighs: "I hope I won´t wake up to find all this has only been a dream."

Sherlock reinforces his grip around the other: "The hangover you´ll have will tell you that it´s all been real."

John cranes his neck so he can look at him: "Who´d have thought that this _could_ be real," he murmurs, "us. You and me."

Sherlock regards him affectionately, apparently amused: "We´ve been running around with each other for a while, after all."

John smiles: "Yes, we have been." His fingers finds Sherlock´s face, are gently stroking the skin: "I´m glad we have."

"Really? Even though it´s dangerous and not exactly what normal people do most of the time?"

"I don´t want normal. That´s why I moved in with you."

"You didn´t know me when you moved in with me."

"Irrelevant," John´s smile deepens. "You had me at 'Afghanistan or Iraq'."

Sherlock gives a snort which sounds like embarrassed laughter, but soons sobers again. His eyes alight on the healing suture underneath John´s hairline: "We need to be more careful," he murmurs, seeking John´s gaze,"if we want next Christmas to be like this."

John´s heart leaps at these words: "So long as we´re together," he breathes, half-quoting Sherlock (who agrees), and leans in for another kiss.

 

**o o o**

**The End  
**

**o**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> For the "Cabin Pressure" fans among you: you might have recognized one thing or other- despite not having been drawn in the ticket lottery for the recordings (still in denial about it), I included some borrowed lines. They originally do belong to John Finnemore...
> 
> Feedback is appreciated!


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